


the first day of forever

by darcylindbergh



Series: things fairy tales are made of [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Banter, Brief References to Alcohol, Dancing, Domestic Bliss, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, Insecurity, Light Angst, M/M, Wedding Planning, terms of endearment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-05
Updated: 2016-06-19
Packaged: 2018-07-12 10:46:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7099690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darcylindbergh/pseuds/darcylindbergh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’m going to marry you,” John murmurs with against Sherlock’s smile, and they both giggle in the joy of it. “We’re getting married.”</p><p>“Yes,” Sherlock says, just to hear himself say it out loud. “We are.”</p><p>*</p><p>A June wedding.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Save-the-Dates

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Первый день вечности (The first day of forever)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13961958) by [PulpFiction](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PulpFiction/pseuds/PulpFiction)



 

  


“Oh, what’s this then?”

There’s a quick kiss to Sherlock’s temple as John leans in over his shoulder to peer at the images pulled up on the laptop, gold accents bold against a black background on one side, a white background on the other. John smells nice, this close; Sherlock leans back into him a little, resting his head against him. “What do you think?”

“Dramatic, with the gold,” John says, which could be a criticism but for the interest in his tone, his voice gone a little velvet as he tilts his head to rest gently against Sherlock’s, temple-to-temple. “Bit sexy. Just like you. I like it.” He plants another quick kiss to Sherlock’s cheek, grinning against his skin.

Sherlock’s nose wrinkles, though. He chose this one because it reminded him of _them,_ together, not himself alone: he’d been thinking all the things they’d overcome and all the life they had left to live, side-by-side. He’d been thinking of being understood. He’d been thinking of being wanted anyway.

He’d been thinking of the shimmer of John’s hair in the early morning light of their bedroom. He’d been thinking of the hope that shines in John’s smiles and rings in John’s laughter, of the molten gold feeling that sparkles to life in Sherlock’s chest at the sight of him across the pillows. First kisses on the front step in the rain, fireworks and mulled wine, center stage spotlights and icing sugar, waking in the night with John’s arms already around him. Two matching metal bands and the weight of their devotion made corporeal, the promise of their singular future made into something they carry even when they are alone.

He’d been thinking of how many times John had been the lighthouse, the beacon, the candle in the window, guiding Sherlock out of the night, bringing him home.

“There’s loads of options on this website,” Sherlock offers, trying to navigate away from the mock-ups he’d created. “This is just one example.”

John hears the uncertainty hidden in Sherlock’s voice and shakes his head, sweeping his hands over Sherlock’s hands and wrists and tugging them away from the keyboard, using his fingertips to tip Sherlock’s head up to meet his eyes.

“I didn’t mean that as a bad thing,” John tells him, quiet and reassuring, brushing one hand along Sherlock’s jaw. “It looks like chasing after you on a case, you and me against the rest of the world, isn’t that how you say it? Those have been some of the happiest moments of my life. Those are the moments that led us here.” He holds Sherlock’s face in his hands and leans in to kiss him. “I see you in it because you light up my life, Sherlock.”

Another kiss, the slow brush of thumbs over cheekbones, the soothing hum in the back of John’s throat. Another. Another. The smooth comfort of John’s ring against his jaw, his neck. John’s words bubble up Sherlock’s chest and make the corners of his mouth tilt up with the familiarity of the way they feel.

Sometimes it still surprises Sherlock: that John loves him the way he loves John.

“I love you, too,” Sherlock says, and John smiles into the next kiss. “But you should still see some of the others before we decide. Some of the more traditional ones, at least.”

“Sod tradition,” John answers, nuzzling into Sherlock’s cheek when he dodges the next kiss to click around the website some more. “We’re terrible at doing things the traditional way.”

“We’re getting married, with cake and suits and guests and everything,” Sherlock says dryly, but he can’t keep the grin from his face. A proper wedding: something Sherlock never even _dared_ to want before John Watson, something John didn’t even hesitate to want with him. “We’ve already succumbed to the traditional way. We’re practically boring now, we’re so traditional.”

“I don’t think so,” John laughs, and then he leans in to whisper against Sherlock’s ear. “Nothing with you is ever anything short of spectacular, Sherlock.”

And there’s not much to say after that–only the press of lips and tongues and the taste of laughter from one another’s mouths, and yes, Sherlock thinks, _spectacular_ is just the word to describe the hot-flash-starburst, the slow-warm-comfort, bone-deep-truth, centuries-old, first-day-of-forever kind of love he’s in.

“I’m going to marry you,” John murmurs with against Sherlock’s smile, and they both giggle in the joy of it. “We’re getting married.”

“Yes,” Sherlock says, laughing, just to hear himself say it out loud. “We are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Save-the-Dates](https://www.weddingpaperdivas.com/product/15429/signature_white_save_the_date_cards_subtle_shine.html) can be found here!


	2. Cake Tasting

It’s hard to anticipate John Watson. 

John is a world unto himself, really, a whole universe of contradictions, of opposing forces and competing motivations: a doctor and a soldier, exasperation and fondness, a gun hidden under cardigans, careful attention to and yet almost total disregard for social expectation, for legalities and morals, when he finds they don’t suit him. He creates routines and forms habits, and likes to break them as much as follow them. He walks along the lines of order and looks out over chaos and grins, his eyes meeting Sherlock’s like he’s sharing every unknowable thing he knows, magnificent and vulnerable both, flawed and broken and raw and yet not shattered, not defeated. 

He is extraordinary and gorgeous and full of complexities, half-wild humanity with bared teeth alongside soft palms and quiet whispers in the dark, and every time he surprises Sherlock, Sherlock falls impossibly more in love with him.

John is surprising Sherlock rather a lot, these days.

The last time there had been a wedding—and Sherlock tries desperately not to think about it, the last time—John had been so. Well, confused, Sherlock had thought back then, but _disinterested_ might have been a better word. Decisions were made out of obligation and responsibility, without fantasy, without excitement, without joy. Sherlock had turned away from each apathetic sigh of _when will this be done_ , not wanting to look too closely for fear of offending, _isn’t that kinder? – no, Sherlock. That wasn’t kind._

Sherlock had wondered, back in early December, back when the idea of marrying John was a fledgling secret fluttering under Sherlock’s breastbone, whether once was enough for John. Whether John had had enough of wedding planning and making promises only to break them around the sound of a gunshot. Whether John would want to bother. Whether John would want to dare. 

 _Should’ve known better,_ Sherlock thinks to himself, watching John smile around a mouthful of almond cake with raspberry filling and vanilla buttercream: classic, traditional, bold without being insistent. _John loves to dare._

“This is pretty good,” John says, gesturing at the miniature slice of cake before them. “Very good, but it's—”

“Not perfect, is it?” Sherlock finishes. “Bit prim. Reminds me of the little cakes my mother used to serve when she was having the local ladies around for a game of bridge, actually.”

John laughs. “Something like that,” he says. “Very good though. What’s next over there?”

He gestures to the next slice on Sherlock’s plate. The samples are all half-slices, made small for tastings and lined up on square plates with tiny cards to say what each flavour is. It’s a very nice bakery, after all, and the owner—a very small, round, wizened French woman with steady fingers—owed Sherlock a favour.

The next one is a little too different, they decide, and too fussy besides (earl grey tea-infused cake with vanilla lavender buttercream, drizzled over with bergamot syrup) and the one after that is luscious but perhaps too pink (pink champagne with rose-raspberry whipped frosting). But they take their time, and enjoy themselves, and it's a perfect afternoon anyway spent laughing and lazing about with nowhere else to be. The thrum of activity in the busy bakery is just enough to sink into, to disappear into until there’s no one but themselves. No one is looking when Sherlock squeezes John’s thigh, when John’s hand covers his. No one is paying attention when they sneak quick kisses, or when the kisses deepen, chasing the tang of fruit and mellow sweetness of cake into each other’s mouths. It’s just them: John and Sherlock, together, planning and dreaming and daring for their wedding.

And it's a bit of a giddy thing just to say still, Sherlock thinks, still a bit fresh and unbelievable and exuberant:  _our wedding_. 

“Okay,” John says as Vivienne delivers another sample with a rather saucy wink. “This one’s you, I know it is. This’ll be the one.” He leans in, hushed, like he’s telling Sherlock a secret. “It’s honey cake. Honey, with white chocolate buttercream and a blackberry filling. Go on, try it.”

Sherlock takes the offered fork and meets John's eyes, and he doesn't look away as he slides the bite onto his tongue. The honey is heavenly and not at all fake, like Sherlock feared; just the gold-soaked mornings, treacle-slow afternoons, the lazy fire-flicker of home and comfort. The flavour stands up against the lacy-fine sweetness of white chocolate and the thin underline of blackberry, and it seems like something familiar and new all at once.

Sherlock moans around his mouthful and watches the tips of John’s ears pink. “Mm. John. This is. Mm. Incredible.”

“You like it?” John sits back in his seat, self-satisfied, and takes a bite himself. “Thought you would. Your sweet tooth is a bit predictable.”

"Yes, god," Sherlock agrees. He steals another bite from John’s plate. “Yes, god, this is. Light and airy but the blackberry—yes. Yes, this is the one.”

John laughs, and puts the placard with the flavours listed to the side so they can tell Vivienne that this is definitely one they want, and he gives Sherlock a kiss that tastes like white chocolate and morning bites of toast over the kitchen table. They kiss, and kiss, and finish the slice of honey cake together and kiss again, and then Sherlock goes off to find Vivienne to get the sample she’s been saving for last.

“Would be an uncommon choice for a wedding cake,” she’d said, sceptical quirk in her brow when Sherlock had told her what he wanted John to try, and Sherlock had shrugged and dipped his chin in affection as he’d said, “John’s not an especially common sort of man.”

“Close your eyes,” Sherlock says as he comes back to the table, and John does so instantly, smiling with a hint of a giggle hiding just behind his teeth. “And tell me if this isn’t the one.”

He sits, slides his chair closer to John, and—blushing, with a quick look to confirm that no one’s watching, because he’s not embarrassed but this is intimate and no one else deserves to see—he feeds a bite to John.

John melts back into his chair, eyes still closed, groaning in pleasure around his mouthful. It’s dark, dark chocolate cake, with a lingering bittersweetness in the dark chocolate buttercream, bursting with tart black cherry filling, exactly the sort of dessert John craves: almost too rich, cut through with the bitterness of the cocoa and the juiciness of the cherries, something that brings to mind mysteries and Victorian intrigues and espionage, the single pair of red lips in a black-and-white film noir, the haunted beauty of the old abandoned places Sherlock takes him sometimes.

(“Stakeout,” Sherlock will say, and John will sit seriously at the windows or on the rooftops until the sun dips below the horizon, casting crimson and gold and blood orange over London, and then he’ll nudge Sherlock in the ribs and they’ll both laugh when Sherlock takes out a bottle of wine, popping the cork and passing it between them like teenagers, ageless and boundless and wholly, unexpectedly free.)

John swallows his bite of cake and opens his eyes, and there’s such desire in it that it makes Sherlock laugh. “Oh, yes,” he says, and it’s nearly a growl. “You’re a very bad man, Sherlock Holmes.” And they fight over the rest, stabbing playfully at each other’s hands with the tines of their forks, laughing and licking chocolate frosting from their fingertips, leaving smudgy kisses on each other’s cheeks. The double-dark chocolate cherry placard joins the honey white chocolate blackberry placard for their order, for their wedding, John and Sherlock’s wedding, the first day of the rest of their lives, and it looks just like the dark and light dichotomy, the soft kisses and desperate hands, the contrasts and the contradictions that Sherlock loves so well about John, and he thinks it’s just about right.

Once, a lifetime ago at least, Sherlock had known a John that was exhausted, uncaring, a John that wanted to bite the bullet and get it done with, a John that only seemed happy when he was reminded he ought to be.

Now John is full and warm and unapologetically brilliant, his palm warm against Sherlock’s on the way back to Baker Street. Now John laughs with Sherlock and talks with him, makes plans and compares ideas with him, comforts and soothes and allows himself to be soothed, and John is planning their wedding as though it's an adventure.

It could be a daydream, Sherlock thinks, unable to stop himself from smiling, but for the weight of a ring on both their fingers and the way John kisses him first thing in the morning and last thing at night: certain, and careful, and true.


	3. Guest List

“Locked room larceny!” Lestrade exclaims, swinging open the door to admit John and Sherlock to the secure office building, and the crime scene inside. “At one of the top antiques firms in the country, in the _world_ , no doubt, and I can’t find a shred of evidence that someone even _broke in_.”

Lestrade glares at them, as if to demand why they hadn’t solved it yet despite having only arrived seconds ago, and then suddenly deflates. “Need this one done fast, you two. The whole antiques world is in an upset. Fabergé eggs just can’t be stolen. It just can’t happen.”

“Clearly it can,” Sherlock says, brushing past him. Inside, the antiques firm is all sleek stone and marble statues, mahogany rococo revival chairs and enormous Chinese cloisonné vases. John slips in beside him, shoulders pulled back and a smirk on his face that looks suspiciously like pride, making Sherlock grin, and together they lead Lestrade—sniffing in resigned frustration—back to the scene. “Who reported it?”

“Building manager,” Lestrade says as they follow the stragglers of the investigation further into the firm. “Called first thing this morning, said she’d been unlocking the galleries and found it missing as soon as she came in, so it must’ve disappeared sometime in the night.”

“Anything else missing?”

“No, not yet. She’s doing a full inventory now, haven’t even had the chance to interview her properly yet. I’ll make sure she speaks with you, though.”

The firm’s galleries are long, climate-controlled rooms with meticulously organised antiques and artifacts on display for clientele, like a museum for the wealthy where one could buy whatever catches their fancy. _Mycroft is probably a client of a place like this_ , Sherlock thinks, and he wrinkles his nose a little with disdain. He didn't particularly care for cases involving the intrigues of the rich and powerful, but he'd taken this one on because Lestrade had promised that he’d see to it personally that they get an expenses-paid consultation contract on the next homicide with the Glaswegian police, where Lestrade had a cousin serving as a detective inspector. John hadn’t been to Scotland since he was in uni after all, and it wouldn’t be amiss to have a holiday set up for the week after Sherlock is planning to run the experiment with the burning shoelaces.

Besides, Fabergé was a behemoth in jewellery history, and the Imperial eggs were famous, and John had a bit of a soft spot for cases with a cultural flair. 

At the far end of one of the galleries, Sherlock finds the Met already set up, centered around a small glass case that had, mere hours ago, housed one of only forty-three known surviving Fabergé Imperial eggs. The owner, looking to sell, had gone to this particular antiques firm because it had a Fabergé expert on staff, and they’d taken on the sale with glee. But now, only a week after accepting the treasure into its’ state-of-the-art, top-of-the-line security-protected bosom, the egg had disappeared.

“What do you suppose someone does with a stolen Fabergé anyway,” John asks as they approach the group of forensics analysts and gallery staff. “It’s not as though you can sell it, unless you’re into some pretty big mob, black market stuff, but you wouldn’t get the full value of it, I don’t imagine.”

“Probably thought they’d take it home and put it on the mantel with their Diamond Jubilee platters,” Sherlock muses. “God save the Queen and her ugly dinnerware.”

The two of them snort and Lestrade, having finally caught up, shoots them both a dirty look. “All right, behave yourselves, you two, I need your _help_ , not your funny business. Have a look around but don’t touch anything, and I’ll get the expert to come talk with you both—she’s the in-house Fabergé expert and the head of this gallery, so she’ll be able to answer your questions, but be nice. She’s got a rock solid alibi; she didn’t do it.”

And he takes off toward one of the women gathered near the glass case, steadfastly ignoring them both as they dissolve into giggles.

Sherlock loves doing this with John: going to crime scenes, interviewing witnesses, sniffing out clues. He’s always loved doing this with John, from the earliest beginning of their friendship, and he imagines he’ll love doing it with John for a number of years more—ten, maybe fifteen—before they set themselves out to retire like a pair of lazy, well-deserving dogs.

Before John, the work was work. The work was a puzzle and a mystery, to be sure, but it was _work_. He needed the work, and the work, and its victims, its investigators, its networks, needed him. He needed the work to prove there was value in him, competence and utility and worthwhile skill. The work gave him something to accomplish, something to show he could deserve the life that others (that Lestrade, in all honesty) had fought for him to keep. The work was the whole of him; it consumed him, and he allowed himself to be consumed because it _mattered,_ and he could give himself into the work without taking anything he didn’t need back for himself.

Then there was John, and suddenly the work was something Sherlock could _share_.

And it changed. It became fun. It became adventure. It became bigger and wilder, and together they took more cases and more clients, they found the people who needed them without knowing it and they helped, and protected, and emerged victorious. (Except when they didn’t, and John was there for that, too, and it was easier, with John.) 

Then there was the time when John wasn’t there and Sherlock had to work alone, and Sherlock doesn’t think about that, because it doesn’t matter anymore. He won’t have to do that again, he knows, and the thought fills his chest and forces a smile to his face. He won’t have to face an enemy without John at his side. He won’t have to flounder through a puzzle without John to light the path. They’re getting married, and they’ll be together always and Sherlock can _say that_ now, he can believe it, because John is promising him forever and it can’t start soon enough.

“Pleased with this case, are you?” John says, interrupting his thoughts. He gestures toward the empty glass case, where Anderson, newly reinstated to the Met forensic team, is dusting for fingerprints and explaining what seems to be a rather convoluted theory to Lestrade involving a fire ladder. “Fabergé eggs, that’s a bit neat.”

Sherlock shoots him an even wider grin; he can’t resist. He leans in conspiratorially. “Solved it.”

John laughs, and looks up at him in delighted surprise. “No. No, You can’t have done, you haven’t even gotten close.”

“Child’s play,” he assures John. “Look, locked room, no sign of entry, right? And this is a state of the art security system, so anyone who came in here had to have had an entry code. Well, they’ll have checked that, obviously, so it must have been someone that being in here wasn’t at all suspicious, and it must have been someone who could have unlocked the case itself, though that’s a traditional lock and key so it would’ve been possible to pick it. The firm’s building manager reported the theft this morning, said she was first to arrive and it must have happened sometime in the night, but look. She’s sweating buckets over there, her armpits are soaked through, and she has been putting off giving a proper interview with Lestrade.”

John laughs again, and promptly puts a hand over his mouth when the investigators turn to look. “Obvious.”

“Obvious,” Sherlock agrees. “She’d have had plenty of time to open the room, get the egg, and stash it somewhere in her office while she called for police. Should take me about fifteen minutes to find it, once Lestrade comes back over here.”  

“Taking his time, isn’t he?”

“Oh, I’m sure it takes a while to comprehend Anderson, even on a good day.”

“He’s been a bit better though, now that he’s come back onto the force. I think he learned a thing or two tracking you while you were away.” Sherlock glances over quickly—a reference to his being ‘away’ was fairly hit or miss with John for a long, long time—but he seems relaxed, calm, joking. He is more often, now, though not always. The wound is beginning to heal, to scab over, and Sherlock feels a sudden surge of affection that feels like heat behind his eyes.

“Yes, well. He’s not as bad as he used to be.”

John laughs. “High praise, from you.” He takes Sherlock’s hand in his, as though he can hear the little tremor of sudden emotion behind Sherlock’s snark and rubs his forefinger over Sherlock’s ring. “What do you think, should we invite him? Is there room on the guest list?”

John’s hand is warm and solid and even though they’re playing around in their conversation, it feels like recognition of what’s underneath the surface, and Sherlock squeezes it a little. Years ago, he could not have imagined anyone wanting to hold his hand, but John holds it now with ease and familiarity for everyone to see. “Absolutely not. I don’t think he’d want to come, anyway. I called him a baboon last week. Can't have anyone thinking I'm going soft.”

“Would serve you right then, if he came,” John says, squeezing his hand back tightly. Sherlock looks over, and John is already looking up at him, a terribly fond, terribly tender smile in his eyes. _I love you_ , that look says, and Sherlock knows it because he sees it more than any of John’s other looks these days.

“You wouldn’t do such a thing,” Sherlock declares cheerfully, though he gives John that same look back, all soft and gentle edges, _I love you too._ “Our wedding is supposed to be happy.”

“Oh, it will be,” John answers, and some of the playfulness falls out of his tone, turning the moment serious, full of devotion and affection and Sherlock can’t help but to press a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth. “It’s going to be the happiest day of my life.”


	4. Seating Arrangements

Seating charts. Menu selections. Boutonnieres and centerpieces, is it too big, too plain, too gaudy? The venue wants to know by Friday what style of light they want outside, whether they want round tables or rectangles, whether they want slipcovers or bows on the chair backs. The information and to-do lists are spilling over, spilling out of the strict boxes and ordered structures Sherlock had planned them into.

It’s a nightmare: the feeling of being overwhelmed about something he’s meant to be full of excitement for, and then the guilt of feeling anything less, and Sherlock storms around the flat, snappy and restless and bitter out of defensiveness and worry.

“You’re letting this planning stuff get to you, Sherlock,” John says gently, after Sherlock lashes out at him over the pasta options at the venue because he knows John won't like any of them and it’s _terrible_. “And you’re being kind of a tit about it.”

Sherlock turns, shocked, and stares, caught suddenly between the fear of John not wanting to marry someone who behaves like a tit and outrage at being called a tit to begin with, but John’s face has no irritation in it. There’s only concern and that same, familiar, constant affection he always has.

“You all right?” John asks after a second. He gestures at the seat next to him on the sofa. “You want to come here?”

He hesitates, but only a moment; everything inside him feels unpleasant and agitated, and nothing sounds better than pausing for a moment and letting John soothe it away. He goes and flops gracelessly onto the sofa, pushing his head into John’s lap and his face into John’s belly. “You’re not being very helpful,” he says, petulant with embarrassment, and wonders when John will have had enough.

“Neither are you, when you’re like this,” John tells him, but _still_ there’s no heat in it and he puts his hand in Sherlock’s hair and pets his curls for a while, just barely dragging his nails over Sherlock’s scalp in just the way he knows will set Sherlock’s skin to tingling, just distracting enough to be calming. “Let’s take a break here tonight, yeah? Let’s go out. Dinner at least, I think, maybe a walk to clear our heads?” He says it like that, _let us take a break, a walk to clear our heads_ , as though he’s been just as obnoxious as Sherlock has, and Sherlock curls in a little closer around him. “We can check in on some of your homeless network if you like, and who knows, maybe we’ll run into something more interesting.”

Sherlock harrumphs as he tilts his head back into John’s hand. “Serial killers don’t just fall into our laps, John. You can’t conjure one up with sheer force of will.”

“Well. Not with that attitude.” And he chuckles, just the smallest bit, but his stomach moves with it and Sherlock can’t help but huff a tiny laugh back at him. John’s fingers in his hair fills up his mind and everything begins to quiet, and after a few minutes, the muddle of information in his head begins to sort itself out.  

Eventually Sherlock sits back up, though he leans his head into John’s shoulder. “I’ve got to finish the seating charts.”

“Harry as far away from the bar as possible, Mrs Hudson and your parents up front,” John supplies. “Everyone else can just fill in, and you—” He wraps an arm around Sherlock’s front, stroking over his tummy and nuzzling into his hair a little— “You can stay right here.”

“It needs to be done,” Sherlock says, but he doesn’t move away.

“It will get done. I’ll help you do it tomorrow. Promise. Let’s take a night just for us, okay? This wedding is for us. I don’t care about whether there’s a seating chart half so much as I care about whether you’re happy.” And when Sherlock still hesitates, he pats Sherlock’s belly and moves to sit up. “Or we can do it right now?” he offers. “If you don’t want to worry about it.”   

“No,” Sherlock says, finally making up his mind. “No, let’s. You’re right. Let’s just take tonight off.” He twists and shimmies over so he’s fully in John’s lap, straddling his legs. John’s hands immediately come up, sliding under his dressing gown, warm palms, soft smile.

“Only if you want to,” John assures him, and he has no expectation in his eyes; he’s not playing any game. He’ll do whatever Sherlock wants, whatever Sherlock needs tonight to feel comfortable again, and the truth of it is so obvious that Sherlock slouches in his lap a little and leans down to kiss him. Slow, careful, lingering. They kiss for ages it seems like, reveling in each other.

“I love you,” John says. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

Sherlock can feel himself blushing. “John.”

“I do. I love you in the mornings and in the afternoons and in the nighttime. I love you when you’re being silly, and when you’re being rude, and when you’re being brilliant, which is all the time. And I’m going to love you this way tomorrow, and the day after that, and I’ll love you the day we get married no matter who sits where or what’s on the menu or whether we have the fairy lights, and I’ll love you in twenty years from now, and the day after that day too. Okay?”

“John, I.” He looks down at John, with his face so open like that, with his eyes so fiercely full of love, and wonders how not an hour ago he could ever have thought that their wedding had to be perfect for John to want it at all. He doesn’t want a perfect wedding, either, Sherlock thinks. He wants _their_ wedding, and they aren’t perfect, and the rest is details. “I’m sorry.”

“You’re okay,” John whispers, and kisses him again, tenderly, gentling him through, back into security and certainty in them.

John’s touch stays soft, almost cautious, running up Sherlock’s ribs and up over Sherlock’s shoulders, sliding his dressing gown off, his palms hot in the skin of Sherlock’s forearms, his biceps. Sherlock feels the heat of John move through him, light along his veins, and settle deep along the base of his spine, low in his belly, making his thighs twitch with an eagerness to be touched.  

It feels like reassurance, like reverence, and it makes Sherlock’s chest heave. “I love you too,” he says, and it eases some of the pressure building inside him so he says it again. “John. I love you.”

He can feel John’s answering smile against his skin, and Sherlock’s head tips back so John can press that smile down his neck, sucking a mark, pulling his t-shirt to the side so he can lick a line along Sherlock’s collarbone. John’s hand splays in the middle of his back, holding him in balance on John’s lap. His hips lift against Sherlock’s weight and Sherlock groans, shifts against him, presses back down.

John’s voice reverberates along the hollow of Sherlock’s throat. “Do you want—”

“Yes,” he answers immediately. “Yes, I need—”

Carefully, John shifts beneath him, using his hips and the hand centered high on Sherlock’s back to twist on the sofa and guide Sherlock down to the cushions, pulling at his legs to rearrange them around his hips, covering Sherlock’s body with his own. He pushes Sherlock’s fringe back, pausing for a moment to look over his face. “I love you,” he says again, rocking his hips against Sherlock’s.

Sherlock surges up to kiss him, finding John’s left hand with his own to feel the clink of their rings together, and John pushes their hands, fingers tangled, back into the sofa arm above Sherlock’s head, holding him there. Sherlock feels like everything is caught in his throat as he whispers, “I’m going to love you forever.”

And John kisses him again, kisses him as he unbuttons his own shirt, kisses him as he rucks up Sherlock’s t-shirt. Kisses his belly as Sherlock wrestles the t-shirt off, kisses his hips as they shift Sherlock’s pyjama bottoms down. “Is the door locked?” John whispers against his tummy.

Sherlock looks over his shoulder and wrenches a groan. “Ugh, no, god, does it matter?”

John grins and gives him another kiss. “Don’t fancy having Mrs Hudson walking in on us, so yes, it does. Two seconds, okay?” But he doesn’t wait for an answer, just slides off and goes to shut and lock both the door to the sitting room and the door the kitchen. Sherlock sinks back into the sofa, the leather sticky against his bare skin in a way that thrills up his spine—forbidden—and strokes his cock slowly, using his left hand, the sensation of the cool metal on his fourth finger— _dirty_ —teasing him, waiting for John to come back.

John returns with a tube of lube, shucking his trousers and pants before climbing back on the sofa, his eyes glued to Sherlock’s hand. “Keep doing that,” he says. “Show me how you like it.”

Sherlock does, moving slow and steady, twisting around the head every so often, occasionally pausing to tug at his foreskin, and John uncaps the lube and pours a bit over Sherlock’s fingers to smooth the way before adding a little to his own and kissing Sherlock’s chest as he adds his hand to the mix, helping Sherlock stroke himself.

“John,” Sherlock gasps, undulating his body in an attempt to get closer to John’s, to feel his heat, his heartbeat. “John, come _here_.”

And John does, sinks down, slides his cock through the lube gathering on Sherlock’s tummy as he settles onto his body, hips and shoulders and chests, the weight of him grounding and gorgeous at once. “You’re so good,” he tells Sherlock, pressing kisses to the hinge of Sherlock’s jaw, to the stretch of his neck as he swallows hard. “I can’t even say how much I love you.”

Sherlock digs his fingertips into John’s hip and tugs him closer, closer, their cocks sliding together, and Sherlock wraps his hand around the both of them. “I feel it,” Sherlock manages as John thrusts against him with long, measured pushes, “I feel it all the time.”

It’s slick and warm and John keeps his deliberate, beautiful, maddeningly slow pace, even when Sherlock tries to speed his hand, and the sofa creaks and John’s mouth is wet and tender on his neck, his arms, pressing kisses to his wrists, and Sherlock feels like an ember, a softly glowing starter being blown into flame.

Eventually, though, Sherlock’s hips begin to thrust back without control, faster and sloppy; his head tips back to pant through his open mouth and John follows, finally picking up the pace, rolling his hips hard and quick, their cocks sliding together through both their hands. “John,” Sherlock says urgently, when he feels his orgasm gathering behind his abdomen, “John, John, John, John—”

“Yes,” John pants back, “God, Sherlock, do it.” And Sherlock does, his body rising off the sofa as he comes between them, and John groans, strokes him through it, his own cock twitching and pulsing. When Sherlock falls back, spent, John nudges as his neck and his jaw and kisses his mouth, fucking into his own fist hard and fast, until he finishes as well.

After, it’s quiet. John lays his head on Sherlock’s chest and listens to his heartbeat slow, getting heavier as he starts to get sleepy, and Sherlock runs his fingertips up and down John’s back, letting the moment draw out. John will nap for a while, he thinks, and he’s all right with that. An hour, maybe two. Then they’ll get up, get a shower together, and get out of Baker Street, away from the soured reality of wedding planning. Greek, he thinks, or maybe pasta. Somewhere a little dark, a little quiet, somewhere with a candle and a good wine list, and then they’ll walk through the park, stepping off the paths and into the shadows to exchange kisses in the dark of the trees.

“It’s going to be fantastic no matter what,” John mumbles against his skin, interrupting him, and it takes Sherlock a moment to understand that John means the wedding, not the date Sherlock is planning in his mind. “Just want you to be happy.”

“I’m happy,” Sherlock tells him, kissing his temple. “Don’t ever doubt that. You’re here. I’m happy.”


	5. Suits

Sherlock studies himself in the mirror, turning this way and that to inspect all the angles. The wedding suits are done, and Sherlock’s, at least, is perfect.

The jacket is black silk velvet, impossibly soft, and Sherlock can’t help but rub his fingers over his hips, feeling the tingle in his fingertips travel straight up his arms. The lapels are long, light-weight wool that match the trousers, accentuating his height and swooping over his shoulders and around the back of his neck, making it a bit more casual than a tuxedo, and the white shirt is open at his throat. He looks dashing, daring, a little bit James Bond, and he can’t wait to see John’s reaction.

Here is a secret: Sherlock likes clothes.

Clothing and style is, in its own way, an articulate science. The drape and movement of fabric, the cut and nip of stitching and the way the seams hold in a body, the exchanges and alliances of colours and the way they embolden or hide.

It’s also inarticulate; necessarily imprecise in the same way people are, individual and chaotic and unexpected. And sometimes, the science falls apart, and then there is only magic.

Sherlock knows a good suit can be the difference between a consulting detective and an ex-junkie. An imposing coat can be the difference between walking onto a crime scene unopposed and being stopped at the tape. He knows his humanity is not always an advantage and sometimes armour is more powerful than a weapon.

But Sherlock didn’t want armour or weapons for this.  

Sherlock wanted to _touch_.

He had taken John to a well-lit shop on Savile Row, drying up his obligatory protestations with a flash of Mycroft’s credit card. Sherlock wasn’t the only one in their relationship that liked to look good, after all, and to feel good about looking good, and even though John’s style was markedly different from Sherlock’s—the Marks and Spencer to his Yves St Laurent—his style was strong, well-informed and well-thought out.

They had no trouble talking about the cut and build of the suits: comfort and utility for John, slightly more flair for Sherlock. John had shot Sherlock a saucy grin and asked that the suit emphasis Sherlock’s arse, utterly without blushing, so Sherlock had asked that John’s jacket draw attention to his shoulders, and ignored the pink in his cheeks.

Then the swatches had spilled over the table, wool and cashmere and velvet and linen, silk and brocade, and John had poked fun at the bold silk red and black checks, blue and purple and gold paisleys, bright pinks and lime greens. They’d chosen buttons instead of cuff links and drew in useful inner pockets, and traded kisses behind striped pocket squares, and Sherlock had shooed John away at the very end so he could make the final decisions a surprise.

“I’ll see it at the fittings,” John had laughed. “Does it really matter?”

“No,” Sherlock corrected, pecking his cheek, “ _I’ll_ see it at the fittings, and _you_ will be wearing a blindfold.” And John had laughed harder but just shook his head and went off to have his measurements taken, and Sherlock, surprised he’d given up so easily, had had to follow him a moment for a quick snog in the loo.

“Thank you,” he whispered against John’s mouth, against John’s smile, reaching back to make sure the bathroom door was locked. “I just wanted to do this one thing special. Just this one surprise for you.”

“I know,” John had said, kissing him back, “I just thought I’d let you.”

Now the suits are finished, and John had worn the blindfold from the beginning through every fitting, grinning cockily from behind it whenever he could feel Sherlock hovering, pointing out the places the tailors needed to pin closer or to shorten or lengthen, making everything fit right.

Sherlock hopes everything fits right. He hopes John loves it, that John doesn’t think they’re too silly or ostentatious or ridiculous, that John loves the way they both look, and suddenly Sherlock is so nervous he can hardly breathe.

As if on cue, John calls through the dressing room door. “Sherlock? Ready?”

And that eases everything Sherlock is feeling, of course, because Sherlock will always be ready for John.

He takes a deep breath, opens the door, and steps out. Across the room, his eyes light immediately on John, standing with his hands steady and loose at his sides, waiting patiently with his blindfold and his crooked grin firmly in place, and he’s _so beautiful_ , and the love rises so strongly in Sherlock that it threatens to spill over.

“Take it off,” Sherlock croaks. “Take it off and see.”

John takes off the blindfold.

“Oh,” he breathes, taking Sherlock in, “Oh, wow, Sherlock.”

There’s a pause, and then, as always, they gravitate toward each other, stepping in, reaching out. John’s jacket is the opposite of Sherlock’s, with a light-weight wool body and velvet lapels instead of the other way around, and he’d elected to wear a black wool tie as well. He looks entirely like himself, comfortable and easy, his shoulders broad, hips sturdy, longer and leaner and more confident, and Sherlock doesn’t quite have the word for stunning-magnificent-gorgeous that he needs.

“John,” he manages, and then John is before him, wrapping a hand around Sherlock’s waist, drawing him closer, his fingers stroking over the velvet with interest. “You look incredible.”

John smiles, dips his head to avert his eyes a little, unexpectedly shy. “Look at yourself,” he says. “The velvet, god, no wonder you wanted it to be a surprise. I don’t want to stop touching you ever, I don’t think.”

Sherlock laughs and pets over the velvet on John’s lapel. “I hoped you’d like it. Come on, over here, there’s a mirror—you should see yours properly.”

He drags John over to the tri-fold mirror set up at the other end of the room and arranges him in front of it, watching as John’s smile grows, touching his lapels, smoothing the jacket down over his ribs. “I look good,” he says, as though he’s surprised. He looks up and beckons Sherlock over. “Come here, stand with me so I can see them together.”

Sherlock goes, taking John’s hand and moving in next to him. There in the mirror, smiling at one another, the contrasting jackets tying them intrinsically to one another: no one could mistake them for anything other than _together_ , and Sherlock doesn’t really have any words he can speak for a few moments.

Then John giggles, nudges Sherlock in the side with his elbow. “You look gorgeous,” he says, meeting Sherlock’s eyes in the mirror. “Everyone is going to wonder what you’re doing with an ugly old codger like me.”

And he laughs, and it sounds _wrong_ , the kind of laugh people laugh when they feel like they have to but nothing was really funny. Fake, like resignation.

And Sherlock realises John isn’t really joking.

“No,” he says, much more strongly than he intended, angry and hurt, turning to pull John to face him, holding him by the arms. “No. You are. You are not allowed to say those things about yourself.”

John startles, takes a step back, looks at Sherlock’s hold on him in confusion. “Um. Okay?”

He doesn’t get it. John is radiant and strong and good, sheer competence and intelligence, unabashed love and unapologetic hope, adventurer and protector and saviour in one, with star-studded eyes and a laugh that makes Sherlock feel better than anything else in the world, and John. Doesn’t. Get. It.

Sherlock takes a deep breath and takes John’s face into both his hands. He studies the lines, the angles, the curve of his lips, the bags under John’s eyes. He’s getting crows’ feet at the corners: laugh lines. Sherlock kisses them.

“Sherlock?”

“I love you,” Sherlock breathes. “You are. You are the best, and wisest, and most beautiful person I have ever known, and you don’t get to say those things about yourself.” He pulls back again to look John in the eye, and John’s eyes are wet. “Look at yourself. Look at how amazing you are.”

John gives him a wobbly smile. “I’m getting old, Sherlock. Grey hair and tummy pudge. I love you too, but I can see myself in the mirror.”

“Stop looking in mirrors, then,” Sherlock says. “Your tummy pudge tells me that you’re happy, that you’re taken care of. Your hair looks like starlight in the night and sunshine in the mornings. You’ve got wrinkles because you laugh so often, and you’ve got a bum shoulder that aches in the rain because you were shot trying to save a man’s life.” He kisses John’s cheeks; they’re wet, so he kisses John’s eyelids too and takes the tears gathering in his lashes. “There is so much of _you_ in every inch of your body, John, and it is _gorgeous_ with your life written on it.”

“Your life too,” John chokes out, grabbing Sherlock’s wrist with his left hand, pressing his ring hard into Sherlock’s skin. “Your life is here, too.”

And then they’re kissing, and it’s damp and desperate and needy, and John takes it like he can’t get enough, John accepts it like he wants for more, John gives himself into it like he’s letting Sherlock convince him of truth between their mouths, and Sherlock can only pour down his love and fill John up with it until he believes.

_You are beautiful because of everything that you are and I love you._

_I love you._

_I love you._


	6. Stag Night

Sherlock leans back against the wall and takes a sip of his drink, looking over the room and letting the thrum of the music settle into his veins. He’s warm, and the tiny jazz bar feels close and intimate, all dark corners and old frosted lamps and wrought iron, and he feels smooth on all his edges tonight, liquid and relaxed.

The band in the corner plays on, raspy but vibrant, fighting for space among the potted palms, the tall upright piano spilling over with ivies and mercury glass candles. The low thrumming harmony of the bass and the drums provides an easy beat, and the vocalist has a voice like smoke, dark and sultry alongside the guitar hanging around her neck.

In the scant square that serves for a dance floor, John swirls Mrs Hudson around in what’s nearly a swing, even though the music isn’t quite right for it, but they’re laughing and the small crowd cheers them on. Molly is chatting up Lestrade at the bar, and Mike Stamford is sharing an expansive whisky flight with Mycroft at a table by the fireplace.

Everyone looks happy, Sherlock thinks, his thoughts a little muted with alcohol. He hopes they are.

Then, coming in through the door, Sherlock catches sight of a familiar smirk—Sally Donovan, dressed for a night out. She inclines her head at him, gentles the smirk into a genuine smile, and heads for the bar. 

 _Funny coincidence, to see her here tonight_ , Sherlock thinks.

“Hey, you,” John interrupts, sidling up to him and pressing a quick kiss to the corner of his mouth, breathing a bit hard from the dancing. “Doing okay?”

Sherlock smiles down at him and feels warmth rising in his cheeks; whether from the drink or from John’s kiss, he isn’t sure. “Yes. Mrs Hudson remains as spry as ever, I see.”

“She’s putting me through my paces, that’s certain. What are you drinking there?”

“Not sure, actually,” Sherlock says, looking down at it before handing it to John. “Whisky, I think, but it’s got one of those little maraschino cherries in it too.”

“Ooh,” John says, “I’m eating it then,” and he dips his fingertips in among the ice to pull the little cherry out and pop it into his mouth, and Sherlock giggles and follows it; John’s kiss tastes like whisky sour and maraschino cherry and the tilt of his grin.

On the dance floor, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson finish their dance—Mrs Hudson gives a dramatic curtsy to the small collection of tables, and everyone claps—and then a slower song starts, a bit of soft piano, the deep plucking of the bass. “Come dance with me,” John asks, nipping at Sherlock’s jaw. “Just the one song. You love to dance.”

“I do,” Sherlock concedes. He looks out over the tables, over the crowd that’s gathered, their friends gathered for their stag night. There are a few more familiar faces than before—Angelo, apron conspicuously missing, talking to Raz and Bill Wiggins about something that looked suspiciously like how to pick a lock, and Henry Knight has joined Lestrade and Molly at the bar. _Coincidence?_ Sherlock thinks fuzzily.

“Sherlock? Dance?”

John brings him back into the moment and Sherlock considers. The song has an easy beat to it, and he’s just a little tipsy, and he thinks he’d rather like a dance with John. “I could probably be convinced.”

John gives him a long, knowing look, then shoves off the wall, backing up to the middle of the floor so he can keep his eyes on Sherlock, and holds out his hand. The crowd claps again and by the bar Sally gives a wolf whistle. “Come on, sweetheart,” he says, so soft Sherlock can only read his lips over the sound of the song. “Just me and you.”

Sherlock blushes, but follows after John to the dance floor and takes his hand. John gives him a thousand-watt smile and kisses his fingers before stepping in close, wrapping one arm around his waist. Fairy lights twinkle overhead, throwing kaleidoscope reflections off the glass bottles behind the bar, and for a brief moment Sherlock feels like they’re in the spotlight, all eyes on them.

“Okay?” John asks, rubbing his cheek gently against Sherlock’s. “Having a good time?”

“Yeah,” Sherlock answers, leaning his head against John’s as they sway, closing his eyes. John’s palm is hot through Sherlock’s shirt; his hair smells like sweat and cheap shampoo. “Yeah, are you?”

John squeezes his hand briefly and Sherlock can feel the stretch of John’s smile against his cheek. “Yeah, ‘course. Not the traditional stag night, I know, but. I thought. I just wanted to take you out for something simple, just a couple of friends. I thought you’d like that best, I guess.”

 _Just a couple of friends_. Sherlock looks up again: Lestrade, Mike, Molly, Mycroft. Sally, even, Angelo and Raz and Bill Wiggins. Did Henry come all the way from Dartmoor? Anderson’s club has squished into a booth in the corner, with Anderson himself holding court, and several officers of the Met have taken over another booth, PC Brown and DI Yusuf and a few others, DI Dimmock with one of the new men on forensics holding hands underneath the table. There are clients filling in the tables—Sabrina Jennings and her new wife, Chris Melas, Private Bainbridge and a few of his unit. Nearly every face in the bar is one Sherlock recognizes, and his eyes widen and his throat thickens and no, _there’s no such thing as coincidences._

“John?” Sherlock asks, tremulous with disbelief. “How—why are all these people here?”

John uses his fingertips on Sherlock’s chin to make him turn and meet his gaze. “They’ve come to celebrate with us. It's our stag night and I didn’t want to do anything about any one last night on the town on my own, because I don’t want any more nights without you. I wanted to do something that looked back on everything we’ve done together already, everything we’ve built so far. So I put that up on the blog, and everyone just. Showed up. Because they care, I suppose. You matter to them, you made a difference, and they're here because we're happy and celebrating and they wanted to, too.”

They’re dancing, surrounded by people they know, people they’ve helped, people who are happy for them and who care about what happens to them. They’re dancing, slow-swaying to the music in a French jazz bar on their stag night, with kisses that taste like maraschino cherries, surrounded by the laughter of their friends.

They’ve built their life together with these people, for these people, because of these people: friends and clients, people they’ve helped and people who’ve helped them.

And in the front, Mrs Hudson with her hands clasped over her mouth, beneath her impermissibly shiny eyes, with Lestrade’s arm around her shoulders. Mycroft. Molly. Their smiles, bright and uncomplicated and clear. The family they made for themselves. The family they found.

And suddenly, quite suddenly, Sherlock realises that for once, he isn’t on the outside.

He buries his face into John’s neck, abruptly shy and overwhelmed, breathing hard into the fabric of John's shirt, his arms wrapped tight around John’s shoulders. John holds him tighter, holds him harder, lets him stay and presses a kiss into his hair and rocks in time to the music, and when the song ends, the band plays another, soft and sweet and low again, letting the moment linger.

“You all right, bumble?” John asks after a while. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

Sherlock thinks, tries to find the words, finds them, as ever, in John. He clears his throat, tips his head so he can rest his chin on John’s shoulder and whisper in his ear. “Friends protect people.”

John’s easy swaying slows and stills as he hears the words and remembers. “Friends protect people,” he repeats. “You’re a good man, Sherlock Holmes, and I love you. Do you know that? I love you so much.”

Sherlock laughs. “Every time I think I know,” he says, pulling back to look John in the eyes, “you surprise me by loving me just a little bit more.”

“Then I’ll just have to keep surprising you,” John answers, and kisses him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The client names I used are from [John's blog.](http://johnwatsonblog.co.uk/)


	7. Cold Feet

Their suits are pressed and ready, their rings have been cleaned. Every vendor has been confirmed, every detail at the venue has been approved and re-approved and finalised. The banns were published weeks ago and the paperwork is in order, prepared to be signed.

Everything is ready.

The night is quiet and calm, dark with serenity. They settle into the evening, into the warm glow of 221B, into each other, with the barest fluttering of nerves and the certainty that whatever happens tomorrow, they’ll always have this to come back to: home.

Sherlock thought he’d be nervous the night before their wedding, but he isn’t, and it doesn’t really occur to him to be now that the time has finally arrived. Instead he’s busy scrubbing out the bottom drawer of the fridge because an organ bag leaked while John looks on, lounging in the doorway in a familiar button-down plaid shirt, laughing. He holds Sherlock’s ring in his palm so that it doesn’t get dirty, and Sherlock catches him more than once holding it up in the light, comparing it to his own.

“They’re still identical,” Sherlock smirks when he’s done, rinsing his sponge one last time and going over to give John a kiss. “They’re not going to just spontaneously change on us.”

John pokes him in the ribs. “I know. I just like to look.” Sherlock hums his agreement and holds out his hand for it, but John folds the ring back into the clutch of his fist and then slides it into his pocket. “Think I’ll hang onto it until tomorrow,” he says, dodging Sherlock’s reach for it and laughing. “Just one last night and tomorrow you can have it back. As husbands.”

Sherlock wrinkles his nose—he doesn’t especially like the idea of going a night without it, but John looks pleased with the idea, with the symbolism of it, and he agrees just to see the smile spread across John’s face. “All right,” he says, holding out his palm again, and John’s own ring drops into it. “As husbands.”

John’s ring is smaller and warm from having been on his finger, and Sherlock closes his hand around it but doesn’t quite want to put it away into his pocket just yet. He can remember standing just here, Christmas morning, standing precarious on the edge of a _yes_ or a _no_ and all the risks that stood in that. He can remember seeing John standing in the sitting room waiting for him, surrounded by the life they built together, and wanting desperately to solidify that life into a promise to last forever. He can remember looking up and seeing John’s eyes on him, only ever on him, and _knowing_ , more certainly than he has ever known anything, that he could ask for everything and not be turned away.

“Thought we’d just order in tonight,” John says, interrupting Sherlock’s reminiscing with a kiss to his cheek as he goes to dig out a few take-away menus. “Chinese, or kebabs? Or we could do that one place with the weird chicken strip things you like? The ones with the sauce?”

“We had Chinese on Christmas Eve,” Sherlock remembers suddenly.

John looks up, and his eyes soften into fondness and memory as well. “Yeah,” he says. “We did,” and he understands Sherlock perfectly; he pulls out the menu for Golden China Palace without another question. “Your usual?”

Half an hour later they spread the white plastic boxes over the coffee table and sit on the floor, backs against the sofa. Their order has changed a little since Christmas, because Sherlock has been on a sweet and sour spree for the last few months, but the comfort of picking through the steaming boxes, exchanging mushrooms for pea pods and fighting over the last dumpling, remains the same. It’s easy and care-free, almost as if there isn’t something happening tomorrow that could go wrong in a dozen or more ways, and it feels like a confirmation that this is right, as though the universe is aligning to see it done, as though there is nothing in the world now that could stop Sherlock Holmes from marrying John Watson.

And, Sherlock reflects, dabbing a bit of sticky red sauce of the end of John’s nose just to watch his face contort in affront, there really isn’t.

Later, when the last bit of dumpling is gone, when he's warm and full and getting sleepy, Sherlock slumps down to rest his head on John's shoulder. John is warm too, and he smells like soy sauce and tea and it's nice, and Sherlock wants to keep it. “Tired,” he says, and he rubs his cheek against John, lazy but insistent.

John puts an arm around him, holding him close, and rubs a comforting circle into his back. “We should go to bed,” he whispers. “Big day tomorrow.”

“The biggest,” Sherlock agrees, yawning, but he shuts his eyes and doesn’t move, and for a while, John doesn’t either.

Eventually, though, the floor becomes less comfy and cosy than their bed sounds and John hauls himself up, then takes Sherlock’s hands and pulls him up too, hand on his hip to help him keep his balance, and gives him a kiss. They carry their dishes to the sink and debate whether to save the take-away—the chicken and fried rice will be good tomorrow morning at two a.m., Sherlock decides, and then he’s struck with an image of them eating cold leftovers out of the boxes, leaning up against the table with their shirts half-undone, married and tired and happy, and it’s so good and so unexpected and so much something he thought he’d never have and it now comes so easily into his mind that it leaves him standing still in the cool blue light of the fridge until John comes up behind him and wraps his arms around his waist, breathing against his spine.

“I love you,” Sherlock says, and John presses a kiss through his shirt.

“Love you too,” he answers, soft and easy, and Sherlock can tell that he’s got his eyes closed against his back, breathing him in, and he stands there for a moment and lets himself be loved.

When they disentangle themselves, Sherlock goes to turn out all the lamps in the sitting room and John closes and locks the doors, and he waits for Sherlock to come back and take his hand again before heading down the hall. They stand in front of the mirror in the bathroom and brush their teeth, shoulder-to-shoulder, take their multivitamins, run a wet flannel over their faces.

In the bedroom, John turns on his bedside lamp and Sherlock leaves his off, leaving the room half-dark, because he likes to protect the hush of the night and their shadows moving across each other’s on the walls. Sherlock very carefully extracts John’s ring from his pocket and sets it in the petri dish on top of his bureau that serves as a ring holder when they need one, and John comes over to set Sherlock’s ring there too, and the sight of the two identical rings, together, one smaller, one larger, holds them both captive for a moment until Sherlock turns and kisses John, sweet and deep as he knows how.

 _Tomorrow_ , his kiss says, _tomorrow,_ and John’s kiss says it back.

The rest of their clothes eventually get stripped off and thrown toward the laundry basket; Sherlock’s shirt misses and John’s socks do too, and neither of them really care. John makes sure the window is cracked, just a tiny bit, turns out the light, and then slips into bed while Sherlock pulls out an old worn sleep shirt. He pulls it over his head inside-out before crawling under the covers and across the mattress and into John’s arms.

“Christ,” John yelps, startling away. “Your feet are _freezing_.”

Sherlock laughs, hiding his face in John’s chest. “I know, I know, help me warm them up.”

There’s a brief tussle at the end of the bed, but then finally John capitulates and lets Sherlock slide his icy feet between his calves. “You’re a menace,” he says. “I can’t wait to marry you.”

“Even with my cold feet?” Sherlock teases, emphasising each question with a kiss to John’s chest. “What if you’re in for a lifetime of cold toes? Unrelenting ice blocks for the rest of forever?”

“Then I’ll spend forever warming you up,” John says cheerfully. He pulls Sherlock a little closer, rucking up the hem of his t-shirt to stroke along the sensitive skin of his hip, and Sherlock answers by stroking the breadth of his hand over John’s belly. “I think that’s a pretty good deal.”

Sherlock huffs out a chuckle and blushes, feeling John’s answering laugh under his palm. “You’re an incorrigible romantic, John Watson,” he murmurs, and raises himself up to kiss him, soothing the laughter out into something slow and secret, something built in the memories of a life already lived together, a life made up out of adventure and hope and endurance, and the future that stretches out before them, a life on the cusp, with so much more to be done, to be celebrated and protected and held close and never let go.

John’s hand in his hair, John’s breath on his cheek, John’s heart under his hands. He kisses Sherlock’s eyelids, one, two, and the tip of his nose, like a blessing and Sherlock rubs his nose alongside John’s, lets the brush of their skin say the words he hasn’t yet been able to find.

“Go to sleep,” John whispers, his mouth soft on Sherlock’s cheek. “Go to sleep, so I can start forever with you.”

There’s another kiss, more breath than press, and the night curls thick and lush around them, and when Sherlock dreams, John is there.

 


	8. At Last

Sherlock tugs at the hem of his suit jacket, straightening some invisible crease. His mouth is dry; his palms are sweaty. His heart is quaking in his chest, the uneven rhythm of _someday_ having finally arrived to beat against his ribs.

He stands in front of the bank of windows and glass double-doors that overlook the rooftop setting and wonders how this scene coalesced out of his wildest hopes and far-fetched dreams and into reality. Even as he stands there before it, waiting for his cue to step out into it, he can hardly believe it’s real.

It looks like a fairytale. Like Shangri-La, secreted away in London’s skyline. It looks like paradise.

And it’s for him, for them—Sherlock and John, John and Sherlock, and the promise of the rest of their lives.

There are about thirty white chairs set up in rows with an aisle in the centre, leading down to a cluster of white candles at the far end, gathered into a wide half-circle just big enough for two people standing face-to-face. Overhead, strings of globe lights stretch across the space, making it seem soft and gold and ethereal, and beyond, the sun has started to set, emblazoning the sky with a stained glass arc as the steel and stone horizon of the city looks on, ready, waiting.

The guests are mostly in their seats already, waiting for the ceremony to begin: Molly and Mrs Hudson, Lestrade and Harry and Mycroft. Donovan and Anderson, with an emphatically just friendly space between them. Major James Sholto, sitting a little too close to a man with dark eyes. A few extraneous aunts and cousins. Sherlock’s parents are in the front and he can’t quite tell from his spot behind everyone, but it looks as though his father may be dabbing his eyes already.

Sherlock cracks a smile. _Some things never change_ , he thinks, but then, he’s here and it’s today and he’s about to marry John Watson, and some things have changed in ways he never even dared to imagine before they’d arrived at his feet, soaked through with rain and bearing a kiss that said _I’m sorry it took so long._

But it’s real. It’s real.

He’s living a third lifetime, fought for on the roof of Barts hospital, fought for on the carpets of a penthouse apartment, fought for on a tarmac, fought for and _won_. He has already lived and died and suffered and dreamed, hoped and lost and triumphed, and he’s alive and he’s standing here at the end of it, trembling hands and aching throat, ready to start over again, and it’s real.

He standing here ready to start again with John, irrevocably entwined, the two threads of their lives interwoven into one lifetime lived together, because John looked at him and loved him and said _yes_.

He puts a hand to his mouth and just breathes.

“Sherlock?”

The voice comes from behind him, tentative and soft, and Sherlock turns. John stands in the light streaming in from the windows, gilded with the sunset, his eyes full of wonder, a small smile on his lips. He’s incredible, Sherlock thinks, just incredible, beautiful-bold-spectacular, and they’re _getting married._

John’s smile grows, and he steps in close, taking both of Sherlock’s hands into his own and kissing Sherlock’s knuckles. “Hello,” he says, and it is the hello at the beginning of a forever to be spent together, the hello that says, _there is no other hello after this._

Sherlock swallows and leans in to press a kiss to John’s cheek. “Hello.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Like I’m walking through a dream,” Sherlock answers honestly, and John laughs.

“Pretty good dream, then,” he says, and—unable to help himself—he reaches up and kisses Sherlock properly. “Let’s hope it lasts.”

Sherlock grins against his mouth. “Doesn’t matter,” he decides, and his chest is so full of faith in it, in the truth of him and John, clear and undeniable, that it feels like it’s bursting. “If I wake up from this, I’m still going to wake up next to you.”

The next kiss tastes like determination and promises and Sherlock pours his certainty down into it. He has lived three lifetimes and he has loved John in all of them, and he will love John in the next one, the one they’re living together, and he will love John still in whatever comes after that.

When their lips part again, John breathes out roughly and rests his forehead against Sherlock’s. He swallows, rough, and Sherlock can feel the memories rising up in him, and the sort of sadness that remembrance has in hindsight—looking back, understanding how close they were, the things they put each other through, the things they endured and needn’t have endured.

How very close they were to never knowing.

“I thought I’d lost this,” John whispers, and his voice cracks. “I thought I’d destroyed any chance we ever had at this. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“No,” Sherlock whispers back fiercely. “Don’t you dare. If we hadn’t—if we’d not done all those things, if we hadn’t been through all those things—”

“I got married, Sherlock. And she tried to kill you.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “I’d already died.”

John huffs a disbelieving laugh and his forehead creases against Sherlock’s. “I don’t know what I was trying to prove. I knew, then. I’ve always known, and I did those things anyway, and you paid the price for so many of my mistakes, and you forgave me.” He opens his eyes, huge and blue and deep, searching. “You wanted me anyway.”

“I am always going to want you,” Sherlock says, and he lets John see it in him, where it lives in the bones of his body, where it thrives in the seat of his soul: the love and the trust and the want and yes, the forgiveness too, tied up in the good nights and the bad nights and the knowledge that if he reaches, John will be there. His love is an entirety, and a certainty, now three lifetimes old and only getting stronger.

And Sherlock sees the reflection of it back in John’s eyes, and he _believes_.

They are, the both of them, flawed and imperfect and struggling, but they are strong and they are human and they are so, so full of love.

“Marry me,” Sherlock says. “Be with me forever.”

And again, again, again, just as stunning as the first time, just as breathtaking, John says, “Yes,” and Sherlock kisses him, and kisses him, and kisses him.

When they finally break apart, the sunset outside the windows has deepened into crimson and indigo and amber. The entire rooftop seems to glow, burning candles and strings of lights, and it is exactly the promise Sherlock wants to make for John: to live, warmly and gently and vividly, with every truth illuminated.

John looks up at him, kisses his cheek one more time. “Are you ready?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “I’m ready.”

And John takes him by the hand, and the glass double-doors open, and together they step out into the light.

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [Tumblr](http://www.watsonshoneybee.tumblr.com)!


End file.
